


The Stalwart Sapphire

by empressgwenny



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Comedy, Dragoon, Elezen, F/M, Romantic Comedy, Secret Identity, blue mage (ffxiv)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 22:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17948570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressgwenny/pseuds/empressgwenny
Summary: When a long-time friend comes tumbling into the ring, Sylveret must rescue her whilst protecting his identity.





	The Stalwart Sapphire

For a split second, he heard only the pounding of his chest. Then, with a thud, the creature fell to the sands, its tentacles unmoving, save for the measly twitch of its smallest arm. Satisfied with his work, the man withdrew his gloved hand and smiled.

The ensuing silence was instantly broken by a roar of applause. Spectators cheered and whistled in the stands. A beam of light shined upon him in the middle of the stage, brilliant and glorious. He, too, felt he was a ray of sun as he basked in the warmth of his adoring crowd. How fervid was their chanting as they called him by name! Stalwart Sapphire! Stalwart Sapphire! A whimsical alias, he allowed, for the whimsical role he played, and they called him by it with unyielding, uproarious affection. Though the circumstance of their approval was hardly respectable, and though it was entirely reliant on the condition of his victory, it was ultimately irresistible. What was the harm in a little indulgence if indeed he had pleased them anyroad? So, he took his bows and drank it all in.

Therein was he doubly glad for that fantastic, fanciful alias. If word got out that Sylveret Jantellot, daring and debonair dragoon extraordinaire, had played assistant to the Great Azuro, he would never hear the end of it. In the first place, his self-respect would be questioned not only by the papers, but by each of his adventuring friends and acquaintances; so, too, would his reputation of strength, resolve and staggering masculinity be forever diminished to the image of some cane-wielding milksop. Secondly, in the wake of that bitter rejection by the woman he loved, he was sure he would not be able to stand any further light-hearted slights or japes from his friends should they have learned of his new pastime. They had been surprisingly open in their distaste regarding the newest mages garbed in blue, finding them to be theatrically exotic (as many were) or outrageously reckless (more than the average adventurer). And even after every ludicrous obstacle he had overcome simply to win the honor of performing at the Celestium, he could find no reason to contradict them.

No, the only people who need know his true identity were a select few involved in the affairs of the Masked Carnival, including his so-called, good-for-nothing mentor and the ringleader of their spectacle. To the rest of the world, he had become the Stalwart Sapphire (having refused to be called the Great Azuro II), a picture of elegance, cleverness and wild spontaneity. It was a burden he was willing to bear for the sake of privacy; and, anyroad, it did not disrupt his daily life. The coin was good and came for less trouble than jumping through portals into the unknown. Further, the ladies loved this iteration as much as his natural self, for the allure of fame and fortune proved a powerful aphrodisiac whether one was an elite adventurer or a dazzling performer. However, in the interest of maintaining his mystery, he took it upon himself not to bed any of them, and to keep roses of white and blue on his person at all times. This, of course, enhanced his celebrity tenfold. 

He was making ready to toss a rose at one such admirer in the crowd when suddenly, the ringmaster called out in a voice more amused than authoritative: “What’s this? It looks like a new challenger has entered the ring!”

Scowling, Sylveret whirled around, searching for the ringmaster’s seat. “Poppycock! We never discussed a third act! It was only two—only two, you scalawag!”

No one could hear him over the roar of the crowd. Certainly, they must have seen him waving his wolf-headed cane, and rather indignantly at that, but the lack of concern was mind-melting. Some among the audience mimicked his movements, assuming, perhaps, that he was posturing before the battle. He was preparing to sling more persuasive slights at the ringmaster when, as he opened his mouth, the great roar of a lion rattled the bearings of the ring. Sylveret turned to meet his new opponent: a deadly chimera!

 _Wonderful,_ thought the Elezen bitterly. _And what tricks are up his sleeve?_

The song of a flute, nimble and playful, accompanied his dance around the ring. Sylveret circled his foe cautiously, awaiting its first move. The beast vomited a line of thunderbolts, then another, then another; and, for his strong, leaping legs, Sylveret was grateful all the more. With a spell that doused him in a resplendent coat of thick oil, he was the very picture of a frog leaping frantically from lilipad to lilipad. So long as the beast did not spit fire, all would be well.

He was relieved when the beast breathed ice instead, and that its breath did not reach beyond a limited radius around itself. Yet, for a moment’s distraction, he had stepped on the ice and slipped across the stage. The chimera charged at him, fanged maw open wide, eyes glowing furiously red. Nothing glamorous left to do; the Elezen rolled like twig in the wind, hoping to the high heavens that the Fury would guide his barreling body out of harm's way.

His prayer was answered, though at a cost. He found his footing with ease, and was pleased to see that the chimera had rammed his head into a wall. That very instant, the music skidded to a screeching halt, and the unfortunate virtuoso who had been tasked with playing it was falling into the ring.

There was no time to lose. A damsel was in distress! At least, he thought she was a damsel, blurred as the falling figure was. Sylveret leaped in the air and fell upon the chimera’s lion head. He was met with the angry cry of its dragon counterpart, snapping its jaws at him ravenously. What could he do but evade its assault as he opened his arms to catch the poor performer? Quickly as he did, he made another gamble on chance, leaping away as fast as he could. The woman in his arms screamed uncontrollably, waving her too-long flute in his face.

_Would you cease your whining, you absolute klutz of a woman!?_

“You are safe now, my lady,” he told her, tilting her delicate body that her frenzied flute would not smack him in the chin.

As she looked up at him, her feathered cap fell from her head. A pair of sweet, quivering lips and large, blue eyes met his gaze.

“S-S’dennmo Jinh!?” He gaped at her, nearly letting her drop to the ground. Nearly. And then, he caught himself. “The—The rising star of Eorzea!”

All her apprehensions melted away, replaced with a great confusion. “You—You know who I am? Really?” Then, she cleared her throat, stumbling out of his arms. “Of—Of course you do! Who hasn’t heard my name and loved the songs I play!?”

_The better question is, who actually remembers?_

He couldn’t complain. Her posturing worked to his advantage, as she was too distracted with her lack of a real reputation to recognize the eyes behind his mask. Fortune continued to favor him (or deride him, perhaps) when the chimera regained its footing and readied another line of lightning for its foes. S’dennmo cried out and dashed to the other side of the ring, hands thrown up in surrender. Sylveret, too, leaped away just in time to save himself.

“My lady, please be strong!” he called out to her. “I will deal with the threat shortly!”

Desperation tactics, then. He really could not bear to see her cower overlong, and especially not before so large an audience. Sylveret flung himself in the chimera’s path, inhaling deep and long.

What followed were, perhaps, some of the most humiliating moments of his life. The horrible stench of a morbol’s breath poured out of his mouth, paralyzing the two-headed beast in every sense of the word. It began to weep and whine, struggling to move, and the audience, partly disgusted and partly aroused, grew infectious in its cheering. Curiously, he looked to S’dennmo, eager to see the look of admiration upon her countenance.  
She wore instead a look of deep disdain, brow furrowed and lips askew. Her fingers went to cup her mouth and nose, either to keep the scent out or to hold vomit in.

 _How could I have allowed myself to stoop so low!?_ He despaired. _Where even soft-hearted S’dennmo finds me base and appalling!?_

He must redeem himself. It was now or never. From the depths of his heart, he pulled the magicks of the moon flute, its melody of madness ringing sweetly in his ears. Brandishing his cane, he charged brazenly at the recovered, lightning-breathing chimera. For his first trick! He transfigured his cane into a bow made of ice, plucking it furiously to release a rain of arrow-pointed shards upon his foe. That it was a beloved of his fans, he was all too aware; and again they erupted into passionate approval, clapping loud, shouting his name to the domed ceiling.

This stoked a hellish wrath in the heart of his foe. Its dragon head screeched still more, eyes glowing a thunderous violet. He was mid-jump when its attack reached him, sending hot streaks of painful paralysis through his lean, albeit proportionally muscled form. What a grievous miscalculation on his part; he could see the beast staggering and knew its health had suffered. A few more blows and it, too, would submit to the dark jaws of death. Yet, he could barely move long enough to cast a single spell before his limbs were rendered immobile time and again. The mad moon’s rays faded from his mind, replaced by the darkness of a total eclipse.

 _You damned fool!_ He stumbled away from the chimera as it launched yet another line of lightning. _Now what will you do!? Bristle the contemptible thing into oblivion!?_

“Ser Stalwart Sapphire!” called the Miqo’te bard from across the ring. “Ser Stalwart Sapphire, please! You mustn’t give up!”

 _She really has no idea it’s me,_ he marveled. _Or really how any of this works._

“I will prevail, my lady!” He made a show of lifting his cane, posing heroically even as he dashed away from the vile creature. “For your sake, I will prevail!”

The crowd went wild. Do it for the lady! Of course he would; it was a gentleman’s duty. You cannot break your winning streak! Never in a million years. He was a man to the very end. I’ve got money on your head! Now, that one was inconsiderate, really. The man should have at least offered to split the spoils of victory with him, given that it was Sylveret doing all the heavy lifting, and not some cheap chocobo from the Saucer.

With a blood-curdling cry, the dragon’s head prepared another frenzied dance of lavender lights. This time, by the gilded tip of the Fury’s spear, Sylveret was resolute; he made absolutely certain to run toward the viciously raging beast on the last legs of its life, yes. As if that ever made any gods-damned sense! Then, he summoned the memory of a cyclops to his eyes and streamed lightning at the foul thing, causing it to stagger around blindly, struck by paralysis for a few seconds more. Had he thought some steps ahead, he might not have stood there, idly dumbstruck, not quite sure how to proceed; he had doubted for a moment whether he could actually succeed in this feat and stood in awe of himself.

Before his mind could wander far, a voice called out to him in song. Sweet as honey and delicate as rose petals, it was perhaps the most beautiful voice he had ever heard, though indeed the most familiar. And went that old, rallying song of hers:

_“Mages, tried and true,_  
_through the strife you carry through!_  
_Garbed in black and yellow and blue,_  
_may your spells, your foes subdue!”_

It stirred in him two sentiments: the first, a new appreciation for those magic-wielding milksops, among whose ranks he had greedily joined; the second, a renewed resolve to dazzle her yet with another of the more glamorous spells in his repertoire. 

Reaching into his magical memory, he summoned forth the unpacifiable rage of crackling earth. With the might of a mountain, it plunged at his foe, rending its body in two. The sight made him vaguely sad as he watched the blue and violet lights drain out of their eyes; lion and dragon, they were yet two halves of a whole, somehow. Once they had been tangibly diverted in the eyes of the world, apart from death, what could unite them anew?

_You’re going soft, Jantellot._

“You did it, Ser Stalwart Sapphire!” His Miqo’te companion rushed to his side, her expression dominated by more relief than admiration. She endeavored to affect it nonetheless, out of politeness, knowing her. “What an amazing show of… force! Now, please, could you escort me out of here if it isn’t too much trouble?”

He acquiesced. His need for applause had been amply satisfied for the day, nasty surprises notwithstanding. The ringmaster allowed them to pass back into Onyx Lane, uncharacteristically happy to handover Sylveret’s prized sack of earnings. Sylveret persuaded himself to let it go, chalking it up to the nature of the business.

“Thank you so much for protecting me,” said S’dennmo, bowing her head. “I don’t know what I would have done, had it not been for you. I left my bow at home, you see, as I was not expecting to get sucked into the whole affair and steal the spotlight, as it were…” 

“No need to explain, my lady.” He bowed his head in kind. “You must be careful that you may live to play another day. The world would be a dreary place without your songs in it.”

He found himself meaning that, unwittingly.

“That’s right! Have we met before?” Her eyes lit up. She waved happy fists in the air. “It’s—It’s been a long time since I’ve run into a fan, that’s all. Have I played for you before?”

_Only every time we toddle through a dungeon together. Or look a primal in the eyes._

“Not until today, I’m afraid.” He offered her an appealing smile. “It so happens that your lovely name reached my ears but recently from one such fan. She extolled the virtues of your voice and songs extensively, and I confess I have been curious to meet you for myself.”

“How wonderful!” She whirled around gleefully. “I can’t believe it! How fortunate!”

 _You shouldn’t believe it._ He grinned stiffly, toothily.

“I’ve been playing for the Celestium for some time now,” she explained, “so our paths were bound to cross. And I’m sure they will cross again. I was filling in for your usual instrumentalist, you see, but I typically play accompaniment for the Great Azuro…” 

His eyes went wide. His smile grew even more determined to remain a smile.

“But I hope you will keep that between us,” she continued, pressing dainty hands to her blushing cheeks. “I’m trying to keep it on the hush-hush. It’s good money, but I would hate for my fame to be eclipsed by the context out of which people hear my songs, and the Celestium is rife with that terrifying potential. You won’t spread it around much, will you?”

Down the road, coming up toward them strolled the Great Azuro, bouquet of roses in hand. Sylveret watched as his mentor’s gaze found S’dennmo. He drew near, approaching from behind, but stopped short some steps away, perhaps out of respect that he not disturb them. He looked rather anxious for a man trying to be polite, however… 

“Yes,” said Sylveret, “of course, sweet lady. If that be what you wish. Though, it surprises me a bit. Do you not find it a smidgen impractical that you should remain an anonymous contributor? If indeed you wish to build a career, establishing your name far and wide takes precedence, does it not?”

A shadow of guilt touched her features, and she smiled apologetically. “An astute observation, but as you can imagine, I have given it a great deal of thought. And, you see… I value my integrity, and would much prefer the opportunity to curate my image to my liking. Certainly you of all people can understand that, yes?”

_Does—Does she know who I am after all!?_

“And, if I am honest,” said S’dennmo, averting her gaze, “I am so terribly put off by blue magic. The spells are ridiculous and highly unglamorous. Toad oil? Morbol breath? It’s a little too close to actual trash for comfort.”

So abrupt was his desire to speak that Sylveret burst into a fit of coughing. Behind S’dennmo, the Great Azuro dropped his bouquet in silent shock. The oblivious bard was about to turn around, at which Sylveret’s mentor turned away quickly, pretending as though he aimed to speak with the ringmaster.

“My—My lady,” said Sylveret, “while I respect your choice, I do suggest you to take care with how you express your reservations…” 

S’dennmo shook her head. “I apologize if that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth. What you’ve reduced the practice to—a parade of exotic spells, taken out of the contexts of culture and creed—is nauseating. Moreover, it is unethical. I understand it is for a good cause, as it has been explained to me, and I have donated to said cause. However, I think it rubbish to reduce yourselves to a public spectacle. And, really, I don’t think I will ever forget what a morbol’s breath smells like after today.”

 _I’ve forgotten how brash she can be._ He continued to stare at her, wondering if she would continue. _She’s not wrong, but I would still take care not to put it that way. By her own words, culture and creed, et cetera… Though, it’s unsurprising. She’s easily disgusted._

“I’ve gone and upset you, haven’t I?” Her brow furrowed. “I really am sorry. Just forget I said anything.”

“No, no, sweet lady, you are absolutely right. But, as you said, coin is coin, and hardly am I a man to let an opportunity slip by.”

“Right! This, I understand. Let us respect each other, then.”

“Of course! Naturally, my lady.” He took her dainty hand and pressed a kiss to its knuckles. “A woman with strong opinions is a woman with resolve.”

“And you, too, are a gentleman,” she indulged him, amusedly. “Now, I really must be off. I wish you all the success in your future performances, Ser Stalwart Sapphire. Even if that sounds hypocritical. It’s for your safety, you understand.”

“I do,” said Sylveret, “and I am grateful, Miss S’dennmo.”

She smiled sweetly and turned away from him, taking the first steps to leave. Almost immediately, she encountered the scattered bouquet left behind by a supposedly great blue mage.

“Let me pick those up,” said Sylveret quickly, dropping to a seat on his haunches. “Please, do not trouble yourself, Miss S’dennmo. Soft hands such as yours need not clean up the trash of the streets.”

A dark blush spread over her face at that. She giggled girlishly, waving her hand. “I see now why the ladies favor you! A gentleman unto the end, aren’t you?”

He plucked one of the roses from the bouquet and offered it to her. It bloomed splendidly crimson, this soft and sweet rose. And, smilingly, a red-haired Miqo’te took it from him.

“Goodbye, Ser Stalwart Sapphire,” she said to him.

“Farewell, Miss S’dennmo,” he said to her. “Until we meet again.”


End file.
